


brunchington blues

by lacrimalis



Series: cruel jokes from the universe [1]
Category: Kipo and the Age of Wonderbeasts (Cartoon)
Genre: Authority Problems, F/M, Fluff, Horse Girl Jamack, Post-Season/Series 01, Pre-Season/Series 02, Rating Subject to Skyrocketing, References to Passively Suicidal Recklessness, Smoking, The Mod Frog Coping Mechanism Is Stored In The Suit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:14:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28247478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lacrimalis/pseuds/lacrimalis
Summary: Jamack has been working off his debt to Cappuccino for a couple weeks now. He still isn't entirely sure what to make of her leadership style.
Relationships: Cappuccino/Jamack
Series: cruel jokes from the universe [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2069229
Comments: 4
Kudos: 11





	brunchington blues

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the installments of this series to come will actually be set BEFORE this one, during season 1. god willing jamack is going to get laid six ways to sunday.

Cappuccino calls Jamack to her office after brunch service.

He tries to make himself presentable, but it’s a hard job; there’s no helping his tie, of course, but even his thrice-mended suit is difficult to be proud of. The fabric which Mod Frog suits are tailored with is not easy or cheap to source for scraps, and he is not yet desperate enough to scavenge unsuitable fabric for  _ patches _ . Though it may soon come to that, he thinks despairingly, plucking at an unsightly gash in the thigh of his pants that he has no hope of mending if he still wants them to fit.

If he frets and fidgets any more, Cappuccino may have even more reason to be cross with him for dithering. So he composes himself and knocks on her office door. She bids him enter, and he does.

It's his first time in Cappuccino's office, and Jamack is momentarily overwhelmed taking it all in. The room is populated with an organized clutter of sundry and bric-a-brac: trinkets, weapons, filing cabinets half open revealing crammed but orderly contents. An enormous mirror takes up an improbable third of the wall opposite the ocean-facing window, multiplying the presence of the densely-packed clutter. Its frame is gold-painted, ostentatiously carved wood. He can't imagine how she must have sourced such a large mirror. Nevermind the price – the odds of finding something like that intact are slim to none.

Upon consideration, Jamack suspects this tableau must be the result of mutes trying to pay for their meals with material possessions, rather than Cappuccino's preferred currency of information. 

Wryly, Jamack wonders how successful that proved, or if they ended up being Harriet's lunch for disrespecting the culture of Brunchington. He supposes he should be grateful Cappuccino only gave him a job.

Such a cluttered office would be enough to offend any self-respecting Mod Frog. But Jamack's self-respect has gone the way of the rain in Las Vistas's dry, arid summers, so the mess itself doesn't bother him – and with the sorry state of his suit, he's hardly in a position to judge on appearances. Rather, the bothersome thing is that his unfamiliarity with the setting only drives home the fact that he has no idea what to expect.

There is a battered leather couch perpendicular to Cappuccino's desk, but Jamack knows better than to presume he can sit wherever he pleases, so he comes to stand before her desk instead. He struggles not to nervously dig the toe of his boot into the floor. He doesn't manage not to wring his hands, though, as he clears his throat and says, "You, uh, wanted to see me, Chef?"

Cappuccino’s tail would not be well-accommodated in the sorts of high-backed chairs that Jamack expects to see in a boss's office, and she does not have one. She stands instead, which Jamack idly observes is a reflection of her active leadership style; Cappuccino is perfectly capable of delegating, but she's not the sort of boss likely to sit around while her orders are carried out. Jamack has caught glimpses of her sweeping through the kitchen with the frenetic yet dignified verve of a master of her craft hard at work.

"Yeah," says Cappuccino distractedly, preoccupied with a stack of papers on her desk. If this were Mrs. Sartori, the papers would doubtless be a record of Jamack's performance under review. Or perhaps a document he had filed erroneously, or filled out improperly – for which she might at some point contrive an excuse to toss carelessly at his feet for dramatic effect, the better to punctuate a timely insult.

But Jamack doesn't file any paperwork here. And as he wonders whether he's been working at Brunchington long enough to accumulate a disciplinary file as big as the stack on Cappuccino's desk, she tears her attention away from it to meet his eyes. "Wanted to know how you were finding the work."

Jamack blinks. He can't shake the feeling this is some kind of test, but he can't figure out what he's being tested on. "It's fine," he says slowly. It's bad form to come right out and ask, but the suspense is killing him. "Um. Did I… do something wrong?"

"Nah," Cappuccino says, waving one of her six arms dismissively. "You're doing pretty good for a newbie. You frogs are a meticulous bunch, so I figured you'd do well washing dishes."

'Pretty good for a newbie' is damningly faint praise, but Jamack gets the impression that Cappuccino doesn't mince words: if he were falling short of her expectations somehow, he doubts she'd waste time with underhanded compliments – not when she could just come right out and tell him. He ducks his head deferentially. "Thank you, Chef."

Cappuccino waves a hand again, seemingly distracted by her papers. "Yeah, yeah. Just keep up the good work. It's almost summer, so things are going to pick up soon. You'll have to get used to working a little faster."

‘Keep up the good work’ is much less ambiguous than ‘pretty good for a newbie’, and Jamack finds this settles the last of his unease about the nature of the compliment. "Yes, Chef," says Jamack. Neither of them says anything after that, but it is difficult to find the silence oppressive. The ever-present aural scenery of the ocean's tides slapping against the restaurant's walls, the crying of gulls, the fresh smell of the sea… It is strangely calming, for all that Jamack is a freshwater amphibian and can barely tolerate the beach. Sand sticks to his skin, and saltwater dries him out like nothing else. "Was that all you needed, Chef?"

"Actually," Cappuccino says, sending Jamack's heart sinking into his stomach, "I wanted to ask you why you're here."

Jamack falters. "You… asked me to come to your office after brunch service?"

She smiles, as if Jamack has made a joke. "Try again."

Jamack casts about for another way to interpret her question. If she doesn't mean why he’s here in her office, does she mean Brunchington? It’s an unusual question, but Jamack realizes there isn’t anything else she  _ could _ mean. Maybe she just wants to rub it in – force Jamack to reflect on his mistakes by making him recount them.

At her expectant look, Jamack clears his throat and averts his gaze. "I'm here at Brunchington because I tried to leave without paying…”

Cappuccino smiles and shakes her head, like she’s amused that Jamack is missing something obvious. “You sure that’s why you’re here?”

Jamack hesitates. Surely the rumors of Cappuccino's impeccable memory weren't so badly mistaken that the  _ opposite  _ is true? "Uh, respectfully, Chef… You're forcing me to work here? To pay off my tab?" he reminds her uneasily. He's not really sure where she's going with this, and the thought that this is some kind of test returns to him, with the realization that its outcome is rigged so he'll fail.

It chafes, but what else can he do? Cappuccino basically owns him.

Cappuccino sighs, pushing away from her desk and walking around it. "Guess we'll have to do this the hard way."

Her considerable height and close proximity make Jamack blanche. First she jerks him around with vague questions, and now she’s threatening him? Try as he might, he can't bite his tongue at the perceived injustice. He hasn’t done anything to deserve  _ this.  _ "What, are you gonna hit me or something?" he demands, pressing his mouth into a tight scowl to keep his lip from quivering.

Cappuccino leans back against the desk and opens her eyes wide. "What? No. We're just gonna have a little chat."

Jamack unwinds, but he's still uneasy. "... Fine. What did you want to talk about, Chef?"

Cappuccino rubs her chin, and the movement distracts him so he doesn't see one of her other arms reach out to grab his tie. His breath hitches, and his heart goes cold – believe it or not, Jamack has exactly zero positive associations with his bosses holding his tie – but she doesn't use the leverage to  _ do  _ anything. Her touch is… gentle. He can just barely hear the whisper of silk sliding between her chitinous claws. "How'd this happen?" she asks.

Jamack purses his lips and flattens his tie, knocking loose Cappuccino's grip in the process – but she lets the moment of disrespect pass without so much as a flash of irritation passing across her face. "Since I'm guessing you know what it means, it shouldn't surprise you to hear that I don't want to talk about it."

"Fair enough," Cappuccino says, though in Jamack's opinion she's within her rights to demand he tell her anyway. Since, y'know. She _ owns _ him. "Let's keep to stuff that's relevant, then. Like why you came here for brunch in the first place. Two weeks ago."

Has it already been two weeks? He feels like he should have gotten his footing by now, if it’s been that long. But Brunchington still feels strange and unfamiliar. And this… performance review, or whatever it is, isn’t doing much to make Jamack feel like he knows what’s going on. "... I was hungry," he says, knowing it for the childish and inadequate response it is.

"Sure," says Cappuccino, "but you're a capable frog, Jamack. I don't see why you couldn't have hunted or scavenged. Fended for yourself, y'know?"

Jamack thinks back to the day he turned Kipo and her friends loose so they could go find their damn burrow. After unexpectedly befriending the kid, facing his fears in braving the mega bunny warren, grabbing the lifesaving tufts of fur that would scatter the mute tribes hunting Kipo and her friends – the subsequent chaos that unfolded as a result of that ploy had drained what little energy remained. After parting ways, his memories blur together a little – but he came to Brunchington not long afterward.

“It was a long day,” Jamack says. “I wasn’t feeling up to hunting anything.”

“Guess that makes sense," Cappuccino says, nodding agreeably. "Still, eating here with nothing to trade, when you know the rules – seems an awful lot to risk for a meal, considering you rode into town on a perfectly good dragonfly..."

This implication so viscerally offends Jamack that he forgets to wonder how she knows about that. "I wasn't going to  _ eat her.  _ That's – disgusting! I may be a Mod Frog, but I have an  _ ounce  _ of–" Jamack cuts himself off. He has misstepped.

Cappuccino, unfortunately, doesn't miss it. "Her?" she asks, the yellow ring in her eyes flashing like a gas stove fire. "Frogs  _ eat  _ bugs, Jamack."

Jamack scoffs and sputters, feeling not unlike a bug himself pinned beneath Cappuccino's dark-eyed scrutiny. "I know that," he protests. "I just – she – we'd been through a lot together, okay? It’s not…" He trails off. In speaking in his defense, Jamack is only worsening his position. Charitable feeling toward bugs is not an admirable quality in Mod Frogs, or a defensible one in a mute-eat-mute world.

"How sweet," Cappuccino says with an amused smile, and Jamack bristles. "You're sentimental."

It kills Jamack to let that assessment lie unchallenged, but he grits his teeth, lest any more damning secrets be dragged forth from between them by Cappuccino's silver tongue.

"Having established your sentimental nature, which I already suspected of you, I’ll go ahead and make another leap: you came to Brunchington because you were feeling nostalgic."

Jamack’s face screws up in a scowl.  _ “Nostalgic?”  _ He says the word like he’s holding it reluctantly between his thumb and forefinger, eager to hand it off to someone else.

“Sure,” Cappuccino says. “Let’s see – you ordered eggs Benedict with a side of waffles and coffee the last time you were here. Isn’t that right?” The declaration invokes a sense memory that rivets Jamack to the floor where he stands. He is too stunned to speak, and so Cappuccino goes on, “My boys had to tell you and your friends to quit smoking, 'cause it was bothering the other customers.”

Jamack remembers. He and Harris had complained under their breath that the Fitness Raccoons reeked like a landfill, which was a much greater affront to one's appetite, in their opinions. But they had acquiesced and checked out, and returned to the watchtower on dragonflyback to begin their shift in high spirits.

He supposes that answers the question of Cappuccino’s impeccable memory.

“You ordered the exact same thing the day you dined and dashed,” she reminds him, as if he doesn’t remember.

“Yeah, fine, sure – I was nostalgic for eggs Benedict. What can I say? You guys make great hollandaise sauce.” Jamack’s fingers twitch. The conversation is making his skin crawl with instinctual unease, as if Cappuccino is a predator closing in on his weak spot – though all she’s doing is standing there smugly and telling him things he already knows.

Cappuccino shakes her head. She reaches for him, and Jamack tilts his chin up defiantly – but she only taps the knot of his tie. “Nostalgic for the time before  _ this _ happened.”

Jamack takes a step back, very nearly stumbling on the heel of his boot.

“... Where  _ are _ those friends of yours, anyway?” Cappuccino asks softly. Her face is drawn in maternal sympathy, which calls out to some aching part of Jamack almost as powerfully as it repels him on instinct. “Did you get separated?”

Jamack huffs and folds his arms across his chest.  _ “They _ didn’t get exiled,” Jamack snaps. Then belatedly, “And they aren’t my friends.”

“Really?” Cappuccino asks, her tone light as if in passing interest. “That’s not how I remember it.”

Jamack tosses his hands in the air, his voice breaking as he cries, "They  _ abandoned _ me!"

“Ah,” says Cappuccino, and understanding flits through the electric yellow of her eyes like a spark. "And you trusted them not to, I take it?"

It burns to have the most devastating event in his life boiled down to the basics by an outside observer. But she’s right. Jamack can't bear to see Cappuccino's knowing look, her terrifying expression of  _ pity. _ He turns on his heel to storm out of her office, and damn the consequences – but an unyielding claw grabs his wrist and pulls him up short.

"Chef," he entreats, voice thick with stifled emotion. He catches sight of his flushed face and wet eyes in the mirror, and he realizes that in this room he is incapable of hiding anything.

"Jamack.” Firm, yet abominably condolent. An ocean of calm beneath which hides a dangerous riptide. “We need to talk about this."

"We really don't," he insists, clenching the fist of the hand captured in her claw.

Cappuccino sighs, and an iron edge creeps into her voice as she says, "Don't make me do this the  _ actual  _ hard way."

Jamack draws his shoulders up and takes a shuddering breath. He glares at Cappuccino in the mirror, silent and defiant, even as the damp of his eyes spills over.

Seafoam froths and splashes against the side of the restaurant, promising a tidal wave.

Cappuccino releases Jamack's wrist, and he's so surprised by the sudden loss of a counterweight that he stumbles. The moment shocks him out of his grief and resentment, shaken loose like snow off the hood of a car. "What?" he stammers, uncomprehending. “You–”

Cappuccino scratches the side of her head, laughing sheepishly. "I thought you'd cave to threats of bodily harm, but you're a tougher cookie than I thought!"

Jamack is too busy processing this to wipe his eyes or clear his throat, so he imagines he makes a pitiful sight when he says, "So, you're not gonna…?"

Cappuccino half-smiles and says, "If I slap you silly, who's gonna wash my dishes, huh?" Jamack doesn't have an answer for that one, but Cappuccino laughs anyway and turns away from him, returning to the opposite side of her desk. It does not escape Jamack's notice that her moment of inattention gives him ample time to compose himself, and he takes the opportunity to do so now with frantic urgency.

When Cappuccino faces Jamack again, she places her hands on the desk and gives him a stern, but not unkind look. "I'd like to continue this conversation later, but I'll give you some time to think about it. Seeing as even  _ you  _ don't seem to know why you did something so stupid." 

Jamack scoffs, but it is weak and unconvincing. He feels flayed open, vulnerable and exposed so that Cappuccino’s indictment of his intelligence stings with the sharpness of salt in an open wound – but Cappuccino is inexplicably uninterested in taking advantage. Instead she has permitted him to retreat, to close himself up and mend the tear until he is prepared to confront his own heart.

He straightens his tie perfunctorily, sniffling quietly. The sea smooths over the silence with its calming ebb and roar, sweeping the awkward tension out with the tide.

Jamack ought to wait for a formal dismissal, but Cappuccino’s attention has returned to her work. Perhaps she surmises that since he was prepared to storm out of his own accord, he won’t wait for her permission now? He is tired of trying to anticipate her commands, and he does not know what to say, and he does not want to stand here any longer. So he turns to leave again.

“Oh! I almost forgot,” Cappuccino’s voice makes him pull up short, a fish hook caught in his suit jacket. He stiffens in anticipatory dread, but she only says, “Make sure you see Espresso before you turn in.”

“Yes, Chef,” says Jamack, and he sees himself out.

–

Jamack is spared the indignity of hunting down one of Cappuccino’s dozens of identical staff, because Espresso flags down Jamack as he’s walking back through the kitchen. The diminutive shrimp thrusts a sharp, square parcel into his hands. It’s about the size of a pizza box, though its contents are concealed by brown paper wrapping and string twine.

“What’s this?” asks Jamack. Bewildered, he shakes it, but the weight of its contents does not shift, and it makes no sound. A mystery.

“Service uniform,” Espresso replies brusquely, and promptly strides away as if he has something more important to be doing elsewhere, leaving Jamack to his confusion in the middle of the winding down kitchen. One of the staff bumps into Jamack, his vision obscured by an armful of freshly laundered dishtowels, grumbling and lashing his antennae as Jamack leaps out of the way. Jamack picks his way carefully through the kitchen to avoid any more collisions and slides out the back.

He’s so busy staring and wondering at the parcel in his hands that he almost stumbles on the metal staircase up to the attic.

Attic is an uncharitable description, maybe, and as he shoulders open the door he tears his focus away from the twine-wrapped package to take it all in. Three quarters of the room are packed with shelves and boxes, their contents consisting of consumables and seasonal decorations for the restaurant and other renovative tools and supplies. But one corner is cleared of the clutter and designated as his: a surprisingly comfortable mattress with clean sheets is tucked against a wall, beside which sits a small cardboard box for his personal possessions (currently empty). The late afternoon sun shines through the skylight, glinting off the large metal tub Jamack uses to bathe in, and bathing Jamack’s corner of the storage room in soft yellow light.

It isn’t much, but nobody bothers him here after Brunchington closes, and the view through the skylight isn't half bad.

Jamack navigates between the shelves to his private corner and sits on the mattress, where he lays the parcel beside him. Drags a hand down his face.

“Service uniform,” he says flatly. “Right.”

Cappuccino is not unmindful to the implications of this. She  _ can’t  _ be. To give him this, knowing full well what his curtailed tie means – she isn’t just asking him to dress appropriately for work. Nobody  _ sees _ him in the dishwashing room, and she hadn’t spared a single glance for his shabby suit in the meeting they just had. It’s clear she doesn’t care what Jamack looks like.

If she  _ has  _ given him a new uniform to match the rest of the staff, the enormity of what she’s asking for… of the statement she’s making…

Jamack decides to take a bath instead of considering it, though the menial task of drawing a bath unhelpfully does not provide an adequate distraction. Instead he finds himself enumerating Cappuccino's acts of generosity, in an attempt to rationalize whether he ought to consider this latest gesture among them.

She didn't kill him, or even let her staff beat him too badly when they caught him trying to dine and dash. She gave him a living space of his own in which to reside while serving out his sentence – although Jamack credits this to the fact that Cappuccino and the rest of her staff reside in some kind of underwater cave system accessible via the basement, when they aren't running the restaurant. So suffice to say there isn't exactly a shortage of above-sea level room.

But it's more hospitality than Jamack has ever known. More than he expected, coming here.

And then there's the metal tub. It's stark and uncomfortable and utilitarian, and honestly it’s more a bucket than a tub – but there are plenty of mutes without access to clean water on the surface. And he knows clean water is crucial for the operation of a restaurant, but Cappuccino specifically indicated that there were no strictures on his use of it.

Granted, his constant exposure to the sea-salted air would put him in mortal danger of dehydration if his job didn't already involve him being elbow deep in dishwater all day. So it's not as if the metal tub is a  _ luxury.  _ He very much needs it to survive. He simply… hadn't expected it. Cappuccino may cater overwhelmingly to Mod Frog clientele, but there's no reason for her to know something as mundane and intimate as the daily hydration needs of frogs.

But he would have had to ask for it if she hadn't already known, so he supposes he is grateful to have been spared the trouble.

Gratitude in general comes more easily when he peels his salty suit from his skin and submerges himself in the water. The water feels clean and refreshing, like it's only just fallen from the sky. It even smells faintly of ozone. Salt dissolves and unsticks from his skin, and Jamack remains submerged until his body completes the tedious work of rehydrating itself.

He isn't joking about the tedious bit. He wishes he had a book to read, or someone to make conversation with – but he tamps down on that thought for being absurd. As if he has anyone in mind.

So to pass the time and stave off his troublesome fretting, he murmuringly sings a half- remembered tune from the old Lincoln Continental's tape deck. He hasn't sung in an age, and his French is rusty. But the song he's chosen has a narrow, easy range and an uplifting key, and he settles into its nostalgic tune with private pleasure at having remembered the melody.

He passes the time like that, determinedly thinking of nothing, until his body feels adequately restored from a day's work in the seaside air. He's loath to put his salty suit back on, and his attention is inexorably drawn to the twine-wrapped parcel on the mattress. He's been traveling light since he was exiled, so he only has the one suit. Whatever Cappuccino means for his new service uniform to represent, he doesn't have to think about it right away. He just needs something to wear while his clothes soak.

It's not a concession, Jamack tells himself as he emerges from the tub and drops his clothes in the brackish mix to soak, rendering the water uninhabitable. His allegiance isn't with Cappuccino just because she got him cheap slacks and a dress shirt, or something. Maybe an apron – not that he even has to wear it just now. He tries to convince himself he won't even notice the difference as he pulls the twine bow loose. He pretends he is not hesitating as he slowly unwraps the box, and lifts the lid away.

When Jamack sees the box's contents, the lid drops from his hands to the mattress. He can scarcely believe his eyes, and he has to reach out and touch it to be sure it's real.

And it  _ is _ real.

Jamack laughs in disbelief. He presses a fist to his mouth while his other hand remains steadfastly on the clothes, as if severing that point of contact will cause them to spontaneously vanish.

Inside the box is a new suit. From touch alone Jamack can identify the same hydrophobic fabric produced by, and reserved for the exclusive use of, Mod Frogs, which means Cappuccino made a very, very expensive commission on Jamack's behalf. Or else she called in a favor for this. He has to wonder what kinds of questions an order like this gave rise to back at the Pond – until Jamack laughs and thinks, no, if the Mod Frog who made this knew what was good for them, they wouldn't gossip about Cappuccino.

Jamack pulls the suit from its box with reverent care. When Espresso said 'service uniform', Jamack wouldn't have thought to dream that its contents were this. In every respect it is identical to the suit currently soaking in the metal tub. Cappuccino has taken no liberties at all with the design or color, and so it is standard-issue Mod Frog black-on-white.

He dresses eagerly and finds the fit is nearly perfect. Not too tight, at any rate, which means he can always take in the seams a bit – 

God, but he feels like a million bucks. It feels like ages since he's felt this fine, worn clothes this clean – longer still since he last wore a brand new suit.

There are only two omissions in the ensemble: boots – likely because they wouldn't fit in the box, and Mod Frog cobblers run an entirely different production chain apart from Mod Frog tailors, besides – and a tie. But the boots he has now are fine, if a bit scuffed, and Jamack thinks the tie's absence is only appropriate. For all he resents about his former home, he has still lived a life informed by its cultural values. He has forfeit the right to wear a black tie, and he's… fine, with that.

It would have been in dreadfully poor taste for Cappuccino to give him a new one, anyway.

And she must know it, Jamack realizes. Just as she knows he needs free access to fresh water to survive, without having to be told. Just as she must know that a replacement suit would delight him, where a new and unfamiliar uniform would fill him with anxiety and dread.

She's acknowledging that he's his own frog, in a way. Not laying claim or demanding loyalty, or infringing upon his cultural hang-ups by offering what she is not entitled to give. She is simply restoring his dignity, so he can continue working as he has been in slightly higher spirits. 

Paradoxically, the gesture makes Jamack think he wouldn't mind wearing Cappuccino's service uniform, after all.

He uses a pair of tongs – discarded by the kitchen staff for a broken spring and subsequently salvaged by Jamack – to pluck his tie out of the water, wrings it out with a grimace at the wrinkles he's making. He pats it dry with the frayed dishtowel he keeps on hand for such things and puts it on. Tying the damn thing is finicky and strange with so much of its length shorn, but he manages as always.

Jamack smooths his hand absurdly down his shirtfront, over and over. He giggles, feeling foolish and irrepressible, relishing the way the new fabric feels beneath his palm. He imagines he cuts a fine figure.

But then, why imagine?

There is a mirror in Cappuccino's office.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so [here's the song](https://youtu.be/8ZHRvrxuVnU) i fancifully imagined jamack singing in the tub, but you're welcome to substitute any tune u find suitable :)


End file.
